


The Pantry

by Tibby



Category: Thick Of It (TV 2007)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-10
Updated: 2010-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-06 02:28:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tibby/pseuds/Tibby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ollie finds himself in an embarrassing situation whilst getting a bollocking from Jamie. Set during the time of the Specials.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pantry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DeGroove](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=DeGroove).



Ollie does not quite know why he is where he is. To be honest, trying to remember is not high on his list of priorities. His main concern is how to get out. And unfortunately this is not very easy when a small, fierce terrier of a Scotsman has you pinned against a wall.

Scratch that, the surface Ollie can feel hard against his spine is not a wall. It's row on top of row of serious books. Good to get that straight. If Malcolm - they are in Malcolm's office. If Malcolm owned a trap door hidden in his bookshelves, perhaps that information would be helpful. As it is, he doesn't and it isn't. The best plan Ollie can think of is to repeatedly smash his head backwards against the books until he knocks himself out. Then again, who knows what Jamie would do to you when you weren't even conscious.

"If you don't make yourself useful, you over-sized, bulbous cock-head," Jamie is barking, with all the zealous energy of the Methodist preacher he might have been, "People're gonna start complaining about the cafeteria special that tastes suspiciously like your balls."

Ollie cannot help but interject here, "Wouldn't that be a really bad idea? Seeing as the only reason you need me is my girlfriend, who, by the way…"

"Oh shut up, you fucking pansy," Jamie snarls, although it is a little lacklustre.

Ollie notices this ebb in Jamie's temper. He's obviously, if this can ever be said of Jamie MacDonald, beginning to calm down and lose interest. Or maybe, Ollie thinks as he lets out a slow breath, that's too quick an assumption. Jamie's nose, thrust upwards just below Ollie's chin for the last ten minutes, flares. His eyes narrow. He manages to place himself even closer to Ollie, and Ollie is painfully aware of the point where the lines of books end and the doorknob on a cupboard is pressing in just above his buttocks. If Jamie could be any closer to Ollie without actually throwing himself against him, Ollie does not know how.

There is a dreadful silence and Ollie winces in defeatist readiness.

By some miracle, the approaching storm veers away. Malcolm has come back. Jamie has casually slid against Ollie's body (did he really just do that? was it some bizarre physical response?) and turned to meet Malcolm.

"All right," says Malcolm, "I want to speak to Mr. Reeder here, okay?"

Malcolm watches Jamie leave and then turns his attention on Ollie. Suddenly all Ollie can think is, "Christ Christ Christ Christ Oh Fuck Fuckity Fuck". It's no use trying to be professional. For one thing, Malcolm could reduce Ghandi to a protesting wreck in five seconds flat. The other, somewhat more pressing, reason is the matter of erections and their place in politics. It's a perfectly natural response, Ollie tries to tell himself, it's nothing that any heterosexual (his subconscious, at this point, tries to butt in but is ignored)… No, it's nothing that any heterosexual man should be ashamed of. What else is going to happen when some mad pervert starts rubbing himself against you? None of this makes the ordeal to come any more welcome. He knows Malcolm has already noticed. He's detected the slight smirk of acknowledgement. Well, all he can do is steel himself. If you're going down, might as well die fighting. Memories of war films crowd Ollie's head and he doesn't notice that Malcolm has already sat at his desk and is busy writing.

What, no mocking? No smug, gloating smile? No "Better save that for your girlfriend"?

Malcolm is completely silent on the subject. He starts asking Ollie perfectly ordinary, work-related questions. It must be an act of God, Ollie decides: 'Thank you, God, who I do not believe in.'

Ollie tries equally hard not to acknowledge that he is standing in a room with Malcolm Tucker and the world's most persistent erection. (Given the situation, any other cock would have wilted and died by now.)

"Look," Malcolm says, giving Ollie's crotch the most miniscule of glances, "I've got the PM coming in any minute, why don't you just wait, ah…"

'I am not going to stand around No. 10 like this,' thinks Ollie, 'Oh please, no. Where are the loos? What if I have to ask someone where the loos are?'

However, Malcolm is steering him into the pantry behind his office; a safe haven, free of people. Is it a trap? Oh, yes, 'Malcolm Tucker, Governmental Policy Coordinator, lures unsuspecting victim into hole', the headline would read. 'Other officials gather to laugh at man's small, erect penis.' Very bloody likely, Oliver Reeder, just trust him for God's sake.

"Wait for me here," Malcolm smiles sweetly, "I won't be more than an hour. Byesy bye."

He shuts the door on a confused and miserable Ministerial Advisor.

***

Half an hour later, Ollie is in a state of panic and frenzy. He thinks the embarrassment is acting as some kind of encouragement. Briefly, he considers wanking over the sink. With the Prime Minister in the opposite room. More headlines. Worse headlines. 'Sex Pervert Caught Spanking It Out In Prime Minister's Cupboard.'

Maybe then Emma would break up with him…

***

"Ready to face the world again?" Malcolm asks, appearing at the door.

Ollie drops the tin of biscuits he's been holding with a clatter. After concentrating on the muffled voices talking over policy, and eating a few biscuits, his erection had eventually given up. He's not quite sure what to say. He notices Malcolm glancing down again to check. What a sadist; he almost seems disappointed.

"Thanks," Ollie says at last. He doesn't know how to express his gratitude. The best he comes up with is saying, "Thanks" again.

"No problem," says Malcolm, as if he deals with the same thing every day. Maybe he reads something in Ollie's face, because he adds, "If it makes you feel better, Jamie probably went and had a wank afterwards too."

"I – I didn't…" Ollie begins, in an attempt to explain his high level of Not Wanking.

Malcolm merely ignores him and continues, "But, of course, if you repeat that to anyone, I'm going to have to have you skinned alive. I look after my own, you know."

Ollie isn't sure what to make of that.

Malcolm pats him on the shoulder, Ollie's eyes lingering on him just a little too long. Then they go their separate ways.


End file.
